There are no words left with which to fill the page.
No decadently adorned mask to wear
to hide the tears,
just an empty green liquor bottle carrying
letters written in the pigments of middle age,
estranged from Youth’s untried
days of redemption.
The vocal cords of Nature are lax
with senselessness in her grave-tasting misery
and unseasonal decay,
while the northern wind heralds the permeating
of the apocalyptic rupture of the Earth.
The stanzas of my unrequited love
lay naked and forlorn
waiting for you to acknowledge their passion,
like caryatids without a temple
standing, with purposeless artifice,
like the Prime Mover unmoved,
in the debris
of ancient Greek ruins, exposed
to the frigid breath of Time.
Originally published in the inaugural issue of Milk Sugar, an online literary journal, June 2010.